


Traffic

by Petronia



Series: Traffic [2]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, Viewfinder
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2010-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly pre-Hong Kong arc, and inspired by Steven Soderbergh's film of the same name: a foregrounding of everything that one assumes is happening in the background of the canon storyline. Alternately, the story of how a little pink pill of love travels from Hong Kong to Tokyo. Alternately, who are these people whose names were on that infamous zip disk, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liu Fei Long

**Liu Fei Long, age 28  
Chairman, LTG Holdings Co. Ltd., Hong Kong S.A.R.**

Sam Leung was both greying and balding. Fei Long currently had an excellent view of the progress of these twin conditions. The top of the kneeling man's head shone under the lamplight, surrounded by a ring of hair like scraggly winter brush.

"Really, Uncle Leung," he said, "get up."

Leung did not move. Fei Long nodded at one of his lieutenants, who approached the older man and tapped him on the shoulder, not ungently, before attempting to lift him by the elbow. Leung allowed himself to be maneuvred into a chair, stiff as an arthritic. His normally sallow complexion had lost a further shade of health.

Fei Long adjusted the angle of his teacup lid. The tiny clink of china against china was readily audible: the room was still, but for breathing.

"I can't begin to contemplate what you were thinking," he said. "You're of an age to sit back and relax, surely? Let your nephews tend to the day-to-day affairs, go to the horse races, lose a few hands of baccarat in Macau..."

Silence.

"Was the money worth it?"

Leung whispered something under his breath. Fei Long waited. Eventually Leung repeated himself, in a louder voice that still trembled.

"Forgive me..."

There was movement in the periphery of Fei Long's vision. One or two of his directors were taking a lively interest in the floor near their feet; the rest remained stony-faced. He sighed.

"Outsourcing, Uncle Leung. The mainlanders and the Burmese manufacture, we put up the funds. The cutting houses supply only the local market: the less merchandise transships Hong Kong the better. I can't think of anyone who should understand the principle better than you. And yet here you are, setting up a factory in the New Territories.

"Did you honestly assume you would escape notice simply because you were moving product overseas? Ten thousand units followed by... what? Did you consider what the Japanese had in mind? Who takes responsibility if your deal triggers a war between the Yokohama organizations and their backers? Do I inform our Tokyo contacts that this was part of our business plan, we simply didn't feel the need to consult them on their home turf?"

Leung looked as if he were about to faint. Fei Long took a sip of tea. After a few seconds he added, gazing into his cup, "It is not only a question of fiscal liability. It is a question of trust."

Leung fell forward out of his chair, onto hands and knees. The movement was comical; no one laughed or tried to help him up.

"Forgive me," he babbled. "It was a mistake. The profit margin – I thought—"

Fei Long watched him in silence, absently running a finger over the edge of his cup. Eventually Leung ran out of stuttered excuses. He made a movement toward Fei Long's chair, a desperate, groping gesture. A fleeting expression of distaste crossed Fei Long's face, and he moved his foot away from Leung's reaching hand. Leung froze.

"You are relieved of your responsibilities toward the organisation," said Fei Long, slowly. "The management of your clubs will pass to Leung Kar-Sing, and the rest of the Leung group's assets will be redistributed accordingly. In view of your long service to the Liu family there will be no further punishment." He gazed down into Leung's face for a long moment – the man did not look relieved, far from it – then turned to the soldiers standing at attention behind him. "Please escort Mr. Leung from the premises."

When the door closed there was a muted but general exhalation of relief, and a certain amount of shifting in seats and wiping of faces. A couple of Leung's close cohorts looked green at the gills. He noted them as instances of a public lesson learnt; there was no evidence anyone but Leung was set to benefit from the deal.

Instead he said to the room at large, "When a man is found to be at fault, he should always be given a second chance to prove himself. What do you think of this principle?"

"Someone who betrays once will do so again at his convenience," said Wong Jian, a weapons trader. "And in Leung's case - for what?"

"Not mere shortsighted greed, if that's what you mean," said Fatty Mok from his favorite position near the lacquered screen. "He has ambition for those boys of his, whether or not they have any of their own. Why, Kar-Sing or Jonny could well rule Mongkok nightlife at the tender age of twenty-five—"

Someone gave a derisive snort.

"—If all they lack are the funds to buy out the opposition," Mok finished with a gleeful flourish, and leant back in his chair. "Blood runs thicker than gold, my friends. Nepotism will be the death of us all."

"Enough," said Fei Long, meeting Mok's eyes across the room. "The meeting is over."

Leavetaking took place with the usual amount of ceremony. Mok lingered, polishing his spectacles with a soft cloth and fussing with the case. He was known as a fixer, a Baishe associate of long standing – one of the aides who had the elder Liu's ear before his death – and among the first to support Fei Long in the power struggle that ensued, though no one had ever caught him favoring one candidate over another beforehand.

When the rest of the directors had left the room Fei Long set his tea cup down and nodded to Tao, seated on a stool in the corner. The boy immediately approached and removed the tray. After the door had closed behind him Fei Long said, "Do you believe Kar-Sing was the impetus behind this deal?"

"I believe Kar-Sing to have more wit than to make a play from his position," said Mok. "He has his eye on the long haul. And he'll keep Jonny and the others in check." Fei Long nodded.

"I want it kept quiet," he said. "Give it a month."

"Natural and unrelated, I assure you," said Mok. "What is Sam Leung without his clubs and his hostesses? I doubt his heart will take the strain." He hauled his corpulence out of his chair. "What of the deal itself, in the meantime? Does the white snake ride the trade wind while it's fair?"

Fei Long remained silent for a few moments, thinking. Mok waited. Finally Fei Long said, "Get me the factory manager. I'd like to see what convinced Leung to take the plunge."


	2. Winston

**Winston Tse Hsu-Ping, age 25  
Ph.D. candidate (medicinal chemistry), Hong Kong University of Science and Technology, Hong Kong S.A.R.**

The door buzzed open. Winston swung his feet off the table and sat up, setting down his notes.

The men who entered were not ones he expected. He recognized the one with the slicked-back hair as a frequent background hoverer during Leung's visits – more secretary than bodyguard, he thought. Another was obviously muscle. The third had narrow eyes in a narrow, tanned face. The face looked bored, the eyes did not.

"What is it?" he said, addressing Slick-Hair. "I have a schedule to follow." The man found a source of inspiration in the periodic table pinned to the wall. It was the third man who answered:

"We're taking you to see someone."

"Mr. Leung?"

"Mr. Leung is no longer in charge of this operation. Bring samples of the merchandise."

Winston stared at him for a second, then stood up, went to the grey cabinet, and unlocked it. One of the shelves held three beakers, each half filled with pills. He took two from each beaker, placing each pair in a two-by-two-inch zip-locked plastic bag.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go."

***

  
He expected an excursion to a warehousing facility (the worst case scenario being a construction site sand pit), but an hour later he found himself being ushered down a tastefully-lit corridor on the first basement parking level of a Hong Kong Island skyscraper.

It was not an office building. The corridor was set with ornately framed, floor-to-ceiling mirrors in which he caught glimpses of himself half-hidden between two taller, dark-suited men (Slick-Hair had disappeared in the interim), and punctuated with elevator doors. Each elevator - Winston estimated - serviced one or two suites per floor only, isolating the inhabitants from each other insofar as it was possible.

He counted ten elevators. It was a long corridor.

The eleventh and last elevator featured a card reader. The narrow-eyed man retrieved a magnetic key card from his breast pocket and swiped it before punching the single available floor button (P5).

The ride did not take a long time, but it made Winston feel queasy.

Two burly men sat around a card table in the foyer. They wore dark suits and had wires hanging out of their ears. They looked up when the elevator doors opened.

"We're expected," said Narrow-Eyes. One of the men said something into his mouthpiece and nodded. The other one got up and patted Winston down with the efficiency of an afterhours club bouncer.

"What are these?" he asked.

"Samples," said Winston.

"He was told to bring them," said Narrow-Eyes.

The first man unlocked and pulled open a folding metal gate with a clatter. At the same time the door behind it was opened, from the inside.

"Please come in," said the boy. He was perhaps ten or twelve, dressed in old-fashioned embroidered silks, with a fresh-faced look Winston found jarring. "Master Fei is expecting you."

***

Winston wasn't expecting Master Fei.

He knew the name Liu Fei Long but not much more (excessive knowledge or the appearance thereof was generally not construed in his interest). He imagined someone like Sam Leung; a little younger and less _greasy,_ perhaps, a little more obviously intelligent. He didn't think—

Had there ever been a Canto-pop star turned matinée idol more unbelievable in the role of Triad leader?

Even a _female_ Canto-pop star?

Liu Fei Long looked him up and down, a flicker of perfect, almond-shaped dark eyes. Something about his gaze made Winston feel small and awkward and exposed. A pinky mouse, he thought – lovingly defrosted and dropped into a garter snake's aquarium. He kept his face still, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Liu must have noticed. He smiled slightly; the effect was stunning.

"So you're Tse Hsu-Ping," he said. "You've caused a fair amount of excitement. Do you have the samples?"

Winston took the zip bags out of his pocket. Narrow-Eyes appeared by his side, took the samples and carried them over to Liu, laying them in a row on the ornately carved teak side table beside Liu's chair. It was a distance of less than three meters.

"Tell me," said Liu. "What do these do?"

Winston took a breath. "The blue tablet with a diamond imprint contains 35mg caffeine, 40mg methamphetamine—"

Leung would have told him to answer the fucking question: what does it _do,_ not what did you put in it. Liu allowed him to recite his entire list. Halfway through the enumeration of the third formula he opened the sample bag in question, shook out one of the pills and held it up to the light.

"The blue diamond," he said when Winston was done, "keeps the user in an alert and hyper-focussed state for a period of several hours, with comparatively negligeable side effects. The yellow butterfly is an euphoric relaxant. And this one—" he rolled it between thumb and forefinger. "There is a liquid form of this that can be administered intravenously. It has... interesting effects."

"It can also be inhaled," said Winston. "It was difficult to fixate for oral dosage."

"Indeed," said Liu, glancing up at him. It was an amused look. "Do you assess all your creditors in this fashion?"

He understood. Of course. "I feel more comfortable if I know whom I'm working for."

"If they're aware enough to appreciate your worth, you mean."

Winston was silent.

"Since I now hold your debt I've looked into the repayment schedule you previously were on with Sam Leung," said Liu. He leant forward in his chair, loops of dark hair shifting over his shoulder. "I applaud your sense of filial piety."

Winston laughed sharply. It sounded bitter even to himself. "Filial piety has nothing to do with it. I would have let you take the store _and_ the flat if that would've been the end of it, but unfortunately I know how to add. You would have come after me anyway."

"The generic _you,_ I hope," said Liu. "And, of course, with your father dead and the family business gone it would have been extremely difficult to finance your further education. But you made Leung see an investment with a sure expectation of return. No, not entirely a shortsighted fool."

The tone of voice made it clear. _Remember to whom you speak._

Winston reminded himself to breathe. "What do you mean to do with me?" he asked finally.

"Very little that has not already been done," said Liu. "You will produce the next shipment as stipulated by Leung, but you will do it for me. I've raised your theoretical salary to slightly above the industry norm. As for your own ongoing arrangement—" he smiled that slight smile again. "Understand that your abilities _are_ keenly appreciated."

***

Leung demanded "samples" on a frequent basis and always kept them. Liu returned them to Winston at the conclusion of the interview. Later that evening he dumped the contents of each bag back into its respective beaker, taking care not to touch.

Then he got down to work.


	3. Ah Yueh

**Yip Hong-Yueh, age 19  
Dock worker, Asia Container Terminals Ltd., Hong Kong S.A.R.**

Ah Yueh arrived at the diner that was their agreed-upon meeting place to find Old Lam already ensconced in his usual booth, and a man he had never seen before occupying the seat opposite. He was rangy and narrow-featured, his hunched form all but buried in a bulky black leather jacket. At Ah Yueh's approach he lifted his head, pinning the younger man with an assessing stare. Ah Yueh stayed on his feet, warily.

"The others are outside," he said to Lam.

"His name is Shan," Lam said by way of introduction. "He's a cousin of Flower Mo, whom you know. He'll be working with us tonight."

Shan held his gaze for a moment longer, and at length smiled. He looked more Thai than Hokka, Ah Yueh thought, and disliked him immediately.

***

Ah Yueh knew as much about the job as any of Lam's jobs involving heavy lifting, which is to say next to nothing. Lam rarely mentioned names, and the Baishe were a wide umbrella - large enough that factions trod on each others' toes on a regular basis and had to appeal to yet a third group for arbitration. But Ah Yueh fancied his instinct to be true, and something about Shan made his knife hand itch. He didn't seem like the kind of man to be doing legwork for Lam. He was too quiet, and he moved like the shadow of a shadow.

Nevertheless the assignment went off smoothly, or at least at first. The pickup contact was a short, bespectacled fellow with the air of a beleaguered rabbit, not much older than Ah Yueh himself. Ah Yueh fancied he looked at Shan oddly, but he didn't say anything; just showed them the goods and took himself off. The behaviour did nothing to overcome Ah Yueh's reservations.

In the end he put his boys on lookout – Carlie at the perimeter and Little in the driver's seat – while he loaded the truck with Lam and Shan, and again when they were unloading and stacking the crates in the designated container. He wanted to keep an eye on the man.

He said as much to Lam when Shan got a call on his cellphone and went around the corner of the warehouse in order to take it.

"You're not getting paid tonight to ask questions," said Lam.

"I got my brothers to watch out for," said Ah Yueh. "How do you know we can trust him? Have you worked with him before? Who else is vouching for him besides Flower?"

"He's not a spy," said Lam. "Believe me on that one." But he gave Ah Yueh a strange look, as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.

_Something there,_ Ah Yueh thought, but he'd worked with Old Lam for six months counting and there was no budging the man when he chose to clam up. "I'm going to go check on Carlie," he said instead.

"—Not going to get to the factory let alone us," he could hear Shan saying as he approached that side of the warehouse, quietly so as not to give away his presence. "I don't need backup, I need him to be called off, and for that we have to go above his head."

A pause. "Yes, I understand." Another pause, and Ah Yueh stopped short at the corner, listening hard.

"I'll call back in fifteen minutes," said Shan abruptly, turned the corner, and snapped his cellphone closed. "Need me for something?"

"Going to check on Carlie," Ah Yueh said, scowling.

"Tell him to come in closer to where we are," said Shan. "I'd like us to keep in sight of each other."

Ah Yueh brushed past him without answering.

***

Carlie wasn't where he expected him to be. "Hey," Ah Yueh hissed, glancing around. "Where—"

He stepped over something white. It was Carlie's running shoe.

He spun at the same time as something slammed into the back of his skull, hard, and the world went black.

***

"—Knew it was Mok behind it all. Fucking fat son of a bitch playing his little games."

Ah Yueh came to with his face against a cool surface that seemed to be spinning. His head throbbed like white strobes going off behind his eyes. It took some effort to lift his eyelids; when he did he had to fight the urge to roll over and vomit.

Instinct said moving was not such a good idea.

Yard lights pooled illumination like spotlights on a concrete stage. Ah Yueh was lying some feet away, in the shadows, his view half blocked by a crate dolly. He tried to count: eight men? Ten? They were unfamiliar, armed with steel pipes and bats. He couldn't see his brothers.

The light fell full on Old Lam's bloody and swollen face as he strained forward in the restraining grip of two men, still struggling despite the punch-drunk loll of his head. It fell on Shan as he stood with his back against a wall of containers, hands well in sight at his sides. It fell on Jonny Leung's handsome, vicious features as he stepped forward from the circle of his soldiers, smiling. One hand gripped the shoulder of the factory manager from earlier on, propelling him alongside. The man still looked like a rabbit: a scared, angry rabbit.

Shit, thought Ah Yueh. _Shit._

"You think the Leung are going to bend over and take it and say thank you?" said Jonny. "You think that? This is our money, our deal, our drugs. We're taking back what's ours. Mok fucked with us and now he's going to regret it. Tell him I'm coming after him next." His mouth twisted. "That's if you can still talk after I'm through with you."

Shan didn't move; only his eyes flickered. "You're full of shit, Jonny," he said. "It fucking astonishes me."

Jonny hit him, a punch that slammed him backward into the container. The rabbity factory manager, released, stumbled back two steps and sat down suddenly on the ground, as if his legs had given out under him.

Shan pulled himself to his feet, slowly. He spat and drew a hand across his mouth, still bracing himself against the container with the other arm.

"You know who sentenced your uncle," he said. "It was Liu Fei Long himself."

"Mok was pulling the strings," said Jonny. "Mok is the one who profited. I know it. The proof is that his right-hand man is here."

Shan laughed. The sound was nearly a cough. "Watch what you say," he said, and there was something chilling in his voice. "Old fat Mok Ho-Kung, pulling the strings of the _Liu?_ I didn't think you were such a fool."

A muscle in Jonny's jaw twitched.

"I'll tell you why I'm here," said Shan. "I'm here because the man I follow can't afford to see this deal go wrong. I'd like you to think about that for a second, Jonny. Tell me if you figure out why your uncle went down."

"The deal is _ours._"

"No. You had a deal. This deal is something else. Your deal is over because it interfered with something that's bigger than you, or your uncle, or Mok. This deal is the start of a fucking _war._ You know, don't you, how Liu Fei Long feels about Tokyo? Or you might not, but I'd be willing to believe Leung Kar-Sing does. Does your big brother know about tonight, Jonny?"

"Don't try to—"

"Tell me, Jonny. _Where is Kar-Sing now?_"

Silence. Several of the men glanced doubtfully at each other. Jonny saw; his lips peeled back against his teeth, and he lifted a hand to strike.

A cellphone rang, the trill painfully loud. Jonny froze.

No one moved. The phone rang again.

Slowly, Jonny dropped his hand. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved the phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear.

"It's me," he said. "Brother? Where are—"

He stopped short.

No one so much as breathed. The dock was hushed to the point that even Ah Yueh could hear the shouted invective emanating from the earpiece as bursts of static noise, words and sentences indistinguishable. Jonny grew noticeably paler with each passing second, shoulders stiffening against the verbal onslaught as if it were a high wind.

"I understand," he said finally, into a pause, and hung up. For a second or so he simply looked around, as if wondering who these people were and how he and they had arrived there. His soldiers shifted and looked uncomfortable.

One of them eventually said, "Boss—"

Jonny punched Shan again, in the stomach this time. As the other man doubled over he brought his hand down in a smart chop at the base of his neck. Shan crumpled to the concrete. Jonny kicked him several times in the ribs for good measure, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the exit.

"We're moving out," he snarled. "Leave those two. We're out of here."

The soldiers complied quickly, dropping Lam to the ground next to the factory manager, who had not budged in the interim. They disappeared into the darkness. Engines fired in the distance; that sound, too, died away.

Seconds passed. The factory manager got unsteadily to his feet.

"To hell with this," he said. "The start of a war? You're all crazy."

It broke the silence; scattered groans answered. Shan struggled to a seating position and turned his head in Ah Yueh's general direction.

"Hey," he said. "You still alive?"

In response Ah Yueh pulled himself upright, using the dolly as leverage. Behind him something shifted, then made a gagging noise. He turned his head and saw Carlie lifting himself on his elbows.

"Sunnuvabitch," he said. "Sunnuvabitch."

"Someone hit you over the head," Ah Yueh said. Carlie groaned.


	4. Shiozawa

**Shiozawa Yukihiro, age 35  
Secretary, Shunsan Construction Y.K., Yokohama**

The mirrored window scrolled down silently to reveal Harunoyama's face. "Get in," he said, jerking his head at Shiozawa, then turned away and continued barking into a portable phone. "...Not setting one foot outside the door without my permission! Do you think I'm a fool? If you so much as... Don't you dare take that tone with me! Misato!"

After a moment's hesitation Shiozawa circled the rear end of the Celsior and slid into the back passenger seat, beside his company president. The driver was pulling away from the curb before he'd completely secured the door.

The interior of the Celsior was another world from the humidity and bustle of the external city: dim, air-conditioned, quiet but for engine hum and Harunoyama's raised voice. It was a roomy car, but the bulk of its regular occupant rendered the rear seat cramped. Shiozawa wedged himself next to the door, laid the palms of his hands flat against his knees and waited. He was used to waiting.

Harunoyama's rant cut off in mid-syllable. He stared at the portable handset for a second before slamming it down in its dock with a curse.

"Kids," he said. "You have kids, Shiozawa?"

"No, sir."

"Good man. You don't know how lucky you are. My son's a little dipshit good for nothing but guzzling beer and wrecking cars, and my daughter opens her legs to the first passer-by who takes her fancy." Harunoyama pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped at his face. "I don't know what I'm doing this for."

Shiozawa said nothing. Harunoyama leant forward and tapped at the smoked plexiglass dividing them from the driver.

"Take us onto the highway," he said into the intercom. "Keep driving until I tell you to stop." The driver complied silently. Harunoyama sank back into the leather upholstery with a sigh.

"I have this car swept for bugs twice a week," he said. "Can't talk at home, can't talk in the office. My phone lines are tapped and I'll bet the shop it's those Miura fuckers. We can't trust anyone, Shiozawa. Not until this is over."

This, too, was old news. Shiozawa continued to wait.

Harunoyama reached into the side door compartment, retrieved a fat manila folder and dumped it in Shiozawa's lap. "Cost me a fortune," he said. "Look at that. Look at that and tell me what you think."

Shiozawa opened the folder. Surveillance transcripts formed the bulk of its contents; he scanned a few pages rapidly, then turned to the attached photographs. He flipped over one, then a second, then a third, checking names off a mental list.

It was not the record of a social event. Money had changed hands.

He turned the fourth photograph over and paused. The lurker – a cameraman of indubitably professional credentials – had caught his subject from the front, as the man lingered behind the others to light a cigarette. Dark suit, swept-back hair, sculptural profile. The grain was fine for the blow-up of a zoom shot, and Shiozawa had a sense (illusory, he qualified to himself a second later) that the man was gazing directly at the lens.

No. _Through_ the lens, at him.

The eyes were feral. He may even have been smiling; it was difficult to tell.

"You know who that is?" said Harunoyama. He barely marked a pause before adding, "Asami Ryuuichi. The fucking king of fucking Shinjuku."

Shiozawa looked up quickly.

"Oh yes," said Harunoyama in response to the unspoken question. "The Miura ran, those shits. They handed it all over – routes, turf, themselves on a fucking platter with an apple in their mouths. We're in it with the Chinese to the end now." He slammed his hand down on the seat beside him. "Fuck! I could do with a drink."

Shiozawa took his glasses off and polished them against the cuff of his shirt, to give himself time to think.

"If the Chinese are committed," he said finally, "if we had any kind of material assurance—"

Harunoyama snorted. "That's the least of my problems," he said. "They always liked the colour of money but now they're falling over themselves to do business. Shit went down on their end, too, you mark my words. The last guy I talked to wasn't Leung."

"Sir, you mean—"

"Their orders are coming from the top now. The big _laoban_ himself." Harunoyama fished cigarettes from his breast pocket, propped one in the corner of his mouth and spoke around it. "Even sent a man over with directives for their soldiers. Name of Shan. You'll meet him tomorrow night when the container comes in."

There was a pause. Harunoyama lit his cigarette, sucked on it as if it were an oxygen line, and exhaled blue smoke.

"I want you to watch this Shan," he said finally. "Keep him in check. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good." Harunoyama tapped away ash. "He has 48 hours to get his people together. Then we move against the Miura. I want them uprooted from head honcho down to the last runner so Asami fucking Ryuuichi doesn't know who to sign a contract with. Yokohama is ours and anyone who wants to do business here does it our way. They try to fuck with me, they get what's coming to them."

He took another drag from his cigarette. Shiozawa was silent.

_You were the one who began this,_ he wanted to say. _Greed began this. Now you're like a cat calling in terriers to help you catch rats. Do you still think you'll be on top by the time this is done?_

None of it passed his lips. "Then, sir," he said, "I'll get off here."

Outside the car the air was oppressive, promising rain. Shiozawa loosened his tie as he strode down the street, then with an abrupt gesture undid it altogether and pulled it off. He unfastened his top collar button, rolled back his cuffs.

The glasses were last to go.

Two blocks away he caught the first bus that passed. Ten minutes later it left him in front of a ramen restaurant by and large indistinguishable from any of the other cheap eateries that lined the street. Shiozawa slipped into the cramped interior, nodded at the owner in passing and ducked around a bamboo curtain.

A steep flight of stairs led down to washrooms and a pay phone. Shiozawa lifted the receiver, dropped in his coins and dialed a number from memory. He leant back against the wall and waited: two rings, three rings, then a clatter as the other side picked up.

"Speaking."

The voice was cool, like water. Shiozawa closed his eyes.

"Asami-san," he said, "it's time."


	5. Masa

**Sonoda Masaya, age 22  
Driver, Shunsan Construction Y.K., Yokohama**

_Lay off that shit for a few days,_ Jouji had said.  _Something big is going down._

Masa's private conviction was that he did better on "that shit" than off.  These days his nerves jangled, sometimes, when he was baseline; say if there were cops milling around, or if a customer tried to short them.  Then the lights would get too _big_ somehow, bright and cold.  He didn't want to take chances on the job. But Jouji was the one who made the calls, and he'd never led Masa wrong.  So he'd only had a blue one at noon, right after getting up, and a top-off at dinner: enough to keep him anchored in the moment, _there_.

Two days ago Jouji had shown up at his garage after shift, carrying a miniature black Samsonite suitcase.

"Can't bring this home to the old lady," he'd said.  "Nowhere to keep it at work"—Jouji waited tables four days a week—"so I need you to babysit it.  Keep it in the cab if you have to.  Just don't let it out of your sight, you dig me?"

The case had been padlocked. "What is it?"

"The cream of the new crop," had said Jouji.  He'd grinned, showing off nicotine stains.  "Two thousand units as payment for future services.  Our ticket to the pro league.  How'd you like to party in Shinjuku for Christmas?"

"We can't sell two—"

"Makkun.  You let me worry about that.  Just get a good night's sleep and wait for my call."

Masa had tried to open the case when Jouji was gone, not letting himself think hard about why (_it wouldn't be missed; Jouji wouldn't hold it against him; it belonged to them, payment for services, and there was so _much), but the lock had held.  He'd felt more sick relief than frustration. A bad sign, though he didn't let himself think about that either.

***

He'd stowed the case under the driver's seat.  It was still there, well out of sight, and if he reached back with his foot he could nudge it and make sure.  He resisted the temptation.  Three of Jouji's buddies were crammed in the back seat, not talking, and the air was thick with violence mustered and leashed.

There were two more cars in the convoy, two different outfits.  The one they followed was full-fledged Harunoyama; the other was – Masa thought, but couldn't be sure – Chinese.  He'd never seen that crew before.

He pictured the same scene happening elsewhere in Yokohama. Dozens of blinking red arrowheads viewed from overhead, like a satellite map in the movies, moving across the agglomerative sprawl of the harbourside industrial zones.  Converging on their targets.

"What now?" he asked.  Jouji stared out the passenger seat window, tapping the arm rest with his fingers.

"Scared?"

"No," Masa said.  He would have been, of course, but the top-off pill had gotten between him and it somehow; like mere potential consequences no longer mattered.  Jouji flashed his teeth again, but didn't turn his head.

"Now we take out the Miura," he said.  "Now we fucking lay waste to them."

***

They dropped off the armed crews around the corner, to avoid giving the alarm.  Their people took off down the street, but the Chinese stayed back, assuming lookout positions.  The one Masa pegged as the general – a thin-faced, tanned man in a black overcoat – lingered by the vehicles, conferring quietly with his driver. A minute or so later they both looked his way, and he met the general's gaze head on, enduring some obscure point of pride in not dropping his eyes. 

After a moment the man glanced at his phone, said something else, then straightened and headed in Masa's direction.

Masa started to roll down his window, but the Chinese man skirted around, opened Masa's passenger-side door and slid in without a by-your-leave.

"They're going in through the back," he said.  "We're going to take point on mop up. Drive slowly – very slowly – down the street until you can see the front gate, then stop and kill the engine."

Masa thought of protesting; thought better of it. 

The building was two stories, brick, and non-descript. Grimy windows lined the façade, papered over on the inside, but the first floor lights were on.  It stood back from the sidewalk in the centre of a concrete yard, circumscribed by not-very-high chain link fencing.  The front gate was closed.

They waited. Masa watched the windows, but the lights were steady – no wavering shadows that would have betrayed movement within.  Gradually, he noticed that their target was the only lit building along the block; all the others were entirely dark.

"I don't like this," the Chinese man said, suddenly, after a minute.  "Start the car."

"But I thought—"

"Just do it."

Masa started the car.

It happened like in the movies.  A ball of fire blew out the building's windows, all the glass panes shattering at once.  The sound was louder than sound, a physical pulse that impacted the side of the car like the invisible hand of a giant.  Masa fell hard against the steering wheel, breath knocked from his lungs.  The car rose on two right wheels, slid, and crashed to all fours again.  The windshield miraculously held.

Somewhere, an alarm was shrieking.

Masa raised his head, gasping for air. To his right, the Chinese man had thrown open the car door and half tumbled out onto the sidewalk, but Masa wasn't paying attention.  A black figure had burst out of the front door.  It was Jouji.

Jouji was running for the gate, or trying to.  The way he moved was wrong.  He lifted his head, saw Masa, looked into his eyes.  It was a matter of fifty metres.  His mouth opened but there was no sound at all.

_Go_

A noise like the whine of an insect, then another; the impact absorbed by Jouji's body.  Masa saw him stumble and come to a stop.  the Chinese man's raised arm was in Masa's peripheral vision – something angular in his hand – but before he could turn to scream at him he saw the other shape by the side of the building fall back and clutch at itself.  Then Jouji was falling to the ground, and Masa was screaming for real, tearing at the seatbelt that kept him in place, and the Chinese man had dived back into the car and grabbed hold of the wheel and the windshield _cracked_—

***

He didn't pass out, because when conscious thought reemerged from the black he was driving, still, and the Chinese man was saying, "Kid.  Kid, you need to pull over now."

He couldn't see properly. At first he thought it was his eyes, then the world snapped back into place and he realized it was the shattered windshield.  He was swerving all over, into the oncoming lane and back, although the road was deserted.

He took his foot off the pedal.  The Chinese man waited until he had pulled over and wrenched the gear into park, then raised his phone again to his ear.

"Pull all the crews out," he said, then a long stream of something that was probably Chinese.  Or it was Masa, maybe, who was losing the faculty of comprehension.  He was still gripping the wheel, and his fingers didn't want to let go.  He needed another pill.  He needed—

The Chinese man hung up, and looked steadily at him for a second.

"Piece of advice, kid," he said. "Get out of town for a few weeks. Liquidate your stock if you have to. You're not cut out for the coming attractions."

The car door opened and slammed behind him.  Masa didn't look. 

"Jouji," he tried saying, knowing with a weird, hemmed-in clarity that no sound had been made.  His lips were flapping, soundless and convulsive, against clenched-shut teeth.  He dropped his forehead to the wheel, entire body shuddering.  His legs jerked, and his heel bumped something.

The Samsonite case was still under his seat.

Payment for—

Sirens in the distance.

His hands were shaking so hard he was barely able to hit the scroll button on his phone's keypad.  No one picked up at the first number he dialed.  Nor the second, nor the third.  He kept trying.


	6. Takaba

**Takaba Akihito, age 23  
Freelance photographer, Tokyo**

Her first name was Misato; last name, Haru-something-or-other.  She had long black hair, long black lashes, and a sullen mouth in a heart-shaped face.  Legs that started under the bubble skirt of her little red designer dress and went on for miles.  Too skinny for Takaba, but he could see the appeal.  He could also read the metaphorical flashing neon sign that said Bad News from a hundred metres off.  Some girls were not worth the time, money, and heartache they cost you. 

Now try telling that to Kou.

He must really be getting old. 

_They're going to put us on the VIP list,_ Kou had said.  And: _her friends are all total cuties._  He hadn't been lying, exactly, but the vibe was off.  One of the girls had arrived with boyfriend in tow, except he kept his other arm around friend number two at the same time and acted like he expected them both to laugh at his jokes.  The third girl was more Takaba's type – petite and sweet-faced, in a spangly top that showed off considerable contours – but she giggled even louder and seemed even drunker than the others.  Misato didn't, but only because she looked deathly bored with the entire scene.

Takaba tried nevertheless, mindful of his wingman duty.  It wasn't until they were outside the club and he made a coffee run that the whole picture clicked.  He returned to find the group halfway down an alleyway, huddled unglamourously behind the neighbouring restaurant's trash dumper.

"Are you sure now," the boyfriend was saying to Kou as Takaba came up alongside, in a tone of voice that suggested Kou didn't quite _get it_ though don't get him wrong, he had nothing against the way Kou lived his life, it was just _funny_.  _What a douchehead,_ Takaba thought.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Kou said, shooting Takaba a glance.  He looked uncomfortable as hell.

"Sure of what?" Takaba asked, but he knew already.  Kou wasn't – Kou had been a different sort of teenager.  Douchehead knew Takaba knew, too, and just grinned at him.

"Nothing," he said, keeping his eyes on Takaba and daring him to make a big deal out of it.  Which Takaba wasn't going to, of course, because it would just embarrass Kou more, even though Douchehead's face was asking to be introduced to Takaba's fist.  The girlfriend giggled and pressed up against Douchehead's side.

"Ne, Kazu-chan," she said, "pass me your water bottle."  Misato just smoked her cigarette and looked bored.

As they filed past the bouncers – the VIP list was for real at least – Takaba fell back alongside Kou and hissed, "Did _she_ take any?"  Indicating Misato with his chin.  Kou winced.

"Yeah," he said.  "Not – she didn't have any money so he just gave her one."

_Shit._  "This is really not your scene, Kou."

"I just want a chance to talk to her," Kou said.  "She is actually really nice.  You just have to know her."

_Kou_ didn't know her, Takaba thought, but they were inside and it was too late to point that out.

***

Inside was cavernous, dark, and jammed with beautiful people bumping to very loud electro-house.  They had an alcove in the VIP section and bottle service – paid for by Douchehead – but the girls made a beeline for the dance floor.  Takaba wanted badly to get drunk.  He didn't dance sober, and he definitely didn't do sober-while-everyone-else-flew-like-kites.  The night was so obviously careening toward disaster, though, that he knew he couldn't take the chance.  Kou poured himself a screwdriver that looked more vodka than orange.

Out on the floor, Douchehead and girlfriends engaged in unsubtle grinding while Kou tried to dance with Misato.  She put up with it for a good fifteen minutes before heading back, Kou trailing behind.  Takaba smiled and made eye contact to keep the petite girl – her name was Asari, he _did_ have a memory – distracted.  She smiled back and her lips moved.

"What?"

"I said, I need more water!"

By the time he made it back to the alcove to check on them, it was obvious Kou had blown it.  He was sitting in a corner with a crestfallen air, ignored by Misato, who was engaged in the sort of intent visual survey of the surrounding floor area that suggested she was too cool to get on her hands and knees and actually look.

"Contact lens?" Takaba suggested, sliding into the seat next to her, and she gave him a dirty look.  It was the first time she'd acknowledged his existence all evening.

"I dropped my pill," she said.

"Oh wow, forget it," Asari said from beside Takaba.  She'd followed him, apparently.  "You're never going to find it in this light.  That sucks, hardcore."

"I'll be right back," said Takaba.

He waited until he was around the corner and well out of sight.  Then he looked at the thing that had rolled into his hand when it had touched the cushions.

***

The upstairs men's room was deserted.  He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror.  Tried to feel less pissed off.  Failed.

This had never been his scene either.  Not as the one buying.  There was a time in his life – only recognized in hindsight as a turning point – when he could have become as fun a drinking buddy as Douchehead out there (whom Takaba actually gave a couple of years _less_ than himself).  He'd had the hookups, had been told to consider it.  Then he'd met Detective Yamazaki.

He thought a lot about Yamazaki, these days.  Couldn't hate him.  _There are no saints,_ he'd told the other detective, but he'd never assumed Yamazaki was one.  What he _had_ assumed was that there was a line in the sand, and that you couldn't be a good guy and cross it.  That you wouldn't stay yourself.  Yamazaki had saved him from one kind of choice, and subsequent betrayal didn't cancel that debt.

He didn't know if Yamazaki had stopped recognizing himself in the mirror.  But Takaba had seen nothing different in the man's face, even at the very end.

_There are no saints._  People made themselves complicit every day, stepped over whatever line lay in wait for them and returned to tell the tale.  Even the ones who made their living on the other side thought they were doing their jobs, just looking out for their own.  That world was always there: built to serve, like plumbing or the electrical grid.  For its businesses to prosper party kids had to buy the drugs, johns had to buy the women, bar owners had to buy the protection, politicians had to buy the war chest.  Police detectives with sick kids and no savings  had to buy quick money at very attractive rates.  And all of them had to come back for the next hit, time after time after time...

Takaba knew all about that part.  And there was nothing in _his_ face to show for it, either.

"Takaba-kun?"

The door swung closed again, muting the outside.  It was Asari.  

Even her name was a reminder.

He just watched her; his hands were still dripping into the sink.  She smiled and wandered closer, arms held mock-coy behind her back in order to emphasize her best assets.  Her pupils were blown wide and black, the way he imagined they would get during good sex.

"You really care about your friend, don't you?" she said.  "You were keeping me busy so he could try to fuck Misato."  A tilt of the head.  "It's cool, I'm not mad.  I was – it's really sweet of you actually.  I think."

"Thanks," he said.  She giggled as if he'd said something funny.  Then she went up on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.  Her lips were soft and tasted of orange juice and clean sweat.

He absolutely thought of doing it.  It played out sequentially in his head: break the kiss, walk over and turn the lock on the door, put his wet hands on her waist and pull her in.  He could undo her jeans and slip his hand into her panties, curl fingers into soft flesh and slick heat.  Get her off and get her to suck him off, or lift her onto the counter – she didn't look heavy – so he could touch her breasts while they did it, or bend her over the sinks so she could see it happening too.

He could make her like it.  She _wanted_ to like it.  Who knows what she'd taken; it could have been the same thing he'd been made to inhale, that one time – the first time – and he remembered how that had felt, he would have done anything, it hurt somewhere far off and he was going to die but that was okay because he couldn't help it, he _wanted_—

He pushed her away, disregarding her sound of protest, and walked out. 

Kept going down the corridor until he encountered another door, and pushed through that too.

He was outside the club, on the fire escape in the alley, and it was cold.

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," said a voice to his right and below.  Takaba turned his head.  It was Douchehead, he noted with an utter lack of surprise; crouched on the metal stairs just below him and hissing into a cell phone.  That was the kind of night Takaba was having.

"What the hell do I know about shit that goes down in Yokohama?  Look, the guy just – of course I didn't ask any questions.  That's what cash on hand is for, _contingencies_.  It was a fucking good deal, okay?  Fifteen hundred units in their own little suitcase.  No, nobody is _after_ me, okay, get a grip, nobody even knows about—"

"Careful," Takaba said out loud.  He hadn't been meaning to, hadn't wanted the other to notice him at all.  Douchehead started and snapped his phone shut reflexively.

"Oh shit," he said.  Then he really saw Takaba, and relaxed.  "Shit," he repeated in a different tone, then suddenly grinned.

"You're pretty on the ball, aren't you?" he said.  "Not like your friend."

Takaba didn't answer.

Douchehead's phone buzzed; he ignored it.  He straightened and stretched, deliberately, taking the two steps up that put him on a level with Takaba.  "Sorry about before.  It was jokes, man, you know that, right?  I'll make it up to you.  What do you want, blues?  Or – no wait, I know – the pinks."  He winked and made an abortive hand gesture.  "You know what I mean?  Man, let me tell you a secret about those: the chicks like them better.  Sick, eh?  They won't admit it but it's true.  For maximum efficiency you'd rather give it to a slut than take it yourself.  You don't even have to tell her what it was, just wait til you're getting her a drink and—"

One small part of Takaba's mind registered his own scream.  The rest of him barrelled into Douchehead shoulder-first, nearly sending them both over the railing.  Douchehead made an inchaoate noise and pushed back, arms flailing wide.  Takaba hit him hard, a point-blank shock that reverberated satisfyingly up his arm.  Then he grabbed him by the collar and threw him down and followed, and the guy was curling around himself, his arms coming up, but—

As Takaba swung again, something caught his wrist in an immovable vise.  The next thing he knew there was an arm around his torso too, holding him back – nearly lifting him off his feet with the effort of pulling him off – and no matter how he cursed and struggled it wouldn't give.

Douchehead coughed fitfully and tried to lever himself up on his elbows.

The white-hot rage left in a rush, the way it had come. 

Behind it crept the cold. 

The other waited until seemingly sure Takaba was calm, then released him.  Takaba turned and saw it was Asami's man – the blond, nameless hulk who'd taken his camera, that one time.  He gazed down at Takaba, expression impenetrable, and said nothing.  Takaba looked again: saw the black BMW parked across the mouth of the alley, idling in a white cloud of exhaust.  The driver's side door still open.

It started to snow.


	7. Asami

**Asami Ryuichi, age 35  
President, Sion K.K., Tokyo**

He texted Kou from the car.  _Got tossed fm club, going home.  Good luck anyhow.  Movie Tues w the guys?_

Twenty minutes later he was facing a polished expanse of desk in a deserted study lined with mahogany cabinets, and the door was closing noiselessly behind the blond bodyguard.  After a second he heard the key turn in the lock.

He hadn't gotten a good look at the rest of the apartment on the way in: too preoccupied with memorizing the route from Shinjuku so he could look it up afterward.  Just an impression of clean modernist shapes, open space, and muted lighting, like a tasteful hotel lobby.  All the curtains had been drawn closed.

He circled around the desk and pulled them aside with a clatter, uncovering a floor-to-ceiling expanse of window glass.  The view was as gorgeous as one might have expected.

No computer on the desk, just a standard-issue office phone and a clean ashtray.  No paperwork or notepads.  Not even a ballpoint pen. 

Check the drawers: locked.

Check the wall cabinets: locked too.  Some were obviously vertical files, while others teased with rows of unmarked binders, displayed behind shadowed glass.  The only one that opened turned out to contain cut-crystal carafes and an assortment of glasses: highballs, martinis, champagne flutes.  The carafes held dark gold liquid.  Takaba opened one and sniffed.  Whisky.

"Fuck it," he said aloud, grabbed a highball and poured himself two fingers.  It was sadly wasted on him, probably, but he counted that as a bonus after the night he'd had.

The taste was smoky, familiar.

He circled the study again, sipping.  There was art on the walls, of all things – two prints of expressionistic splashes that could have been avant-garde calligraphy or a house painter's accident.  Takaba would have bet his next cheque in the mail that Asami hadn't been the one to pick them out.  He sat down in one of the visitor's armchairs, then stood back up again immediately and went to check behind the picture frames.  Neither hid a wall safe.  It was too obvious.

He sat down again, in the high-backed executive's chair behind the desk this time.  His feet barely touched the floor, and he took an unwarranted pleasure in throwing the height adjustment lever and letting gravity bring the seat down gently to the lowest setting.  He set the whisky glass at the centre of the desk, then retrieved Misato's pill from his back pocket and lined it up carefully alongside, as if arranging a photo shoot for a bus-shelter ad.  The image spun out into brief fantasy, but he'd just bought a point-and-shoot to replace the last one, and his budget couldn't take another confiscation.

Boredom was eating at the edges, though.  After a moment he lifted the phone receiver, hit outside line, then speed dial, more or less at random.

It was picked up halfway through the first ring.

"Here," said an unfamiliar male voice, simply.  Takaba hung up on reflex, then for a moment just breathed, staring at the now-silent machine.  He realized his heart was pounding.

"Idiot," he said.  He leant back in the chair, deliberately stretching out his legs, and turned his head after a moment to press his cheek against the cool leather.  Something familiar there as well, faint and pleasant.  Slowly, he began to relax.

***

The next thing he knew he was startling awake.  There had been noise.  Conversation?

Whatever it was had come from outside.  Irritation rose in Takaba like a flash flood.  He got up and stalked toward the study door.

"Let me out, you overgrown excuse for a—"

He'd meant to rattle the door handle, but it was unlocked and he nearly fell through.  Asami looked up.  He was standing in the vestibule, at the far side of the living room space, and was in the process of stripping off his gloves.  His hair was in very slight disarray, strands falling loose as if he'd been out in the wind.  He still had his overcoat on.  Takaba stared.

"Um..."

Asami moved, dropping the gloves onto a side table.  The overcoat went next, tossed carelessly over the back of a love seat.  Then the suit jacket.  Takaba caught a lingering tingle of cold air and cigarettes as Asami brushed past – brushed past! – and was abruptly seized with unwanted memory.  When he'd been a kid there had been evenings when everything had seemed normal and quiet; not like waiting at all.  Then there'd be bags by the front door, all of a sudden, objects in chrome and black die-cast metal he wasn't supposed to play with.  An electricity in the air.  Something back that had never been consciously missing.

His mother had never waited.  Good thing too: pretty soon there had been nothing left to wait for.

Asami's steps had stopped.  Takaba turned, leaning against the open study door.

"How's the situation down in Yokohama?" he asked.  "Handled to your satisfaction?"

He'd heard about the shootouts, even before Douchehead had run his mouth off.  But it was a punt in the dark, and he wasn't really expecting an answer.  Asami gazed at the tableau on his desk for a moment longer, then reached down and picked up the whisky glass.  The contents were still mostly intact.

"You wouldn't have doctored this, would you," he said, his voice very dry.

Takaba's face must have given away the extent to which the idea had _never crossed his mind what the fuck,_ because Asami followed that with a smirk, then raised the glass and tossed the whisky back neatly. 

Takaba watched the curve of his throat move, the clean line of it.  He forgot to get out of the way when Asami set the glass back down.  Before he knew it Asami was in front of him and leaning in, an arm to either side of Takaba's head, effectively pinning him against the door without even touching him.

"I hear you got into a fight tonight," he said.

Takaba lifted his chin.  "I beat up a drug dealer.  The kind of guy who doesn't give a damn about anyone else, as long as he can score tail and feel like a big man at the end of the night.  That sort of thing bugs the shit out of me, I'm not sure why."

Asami _laughed,_ softly, which was not the expected reaction.  He was different tonight, Takaba realized: something coursing through his eyes and the taut closed loop of his arms that – if not unleashed – was at least out in the open rather than carefully banked and hidden.  He wondered suddenly how long it had been since Asami had slept.

It didn't make him seem less dangerous.  Younger, yes.

"You're quite the hero," Asami said.  "A defender of justice.  Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Sure," Takaba said.  "How about you?  Do you enjoy being the final boss at the end of the dungeon?"  He paused, but Asami didn't rise to the bait.  Possibly the cultural reference was beyond him.  "What _really_ happened in Yokohama?"

"Yokohama," Asami said, "is no longer an outstanding issue."

_Can I attribute that,_ Takaba almost shot back, but didn't.  Instead he said, "Meaning there's nothing left to see, go home, playtime's over?"

"That would only add incentive for you."

"I'm not going to stop looking into it anyway."

"I don't care if you look into it," said Asami.  "Let me make myself clear: you and I do not operate on a level playing field.  But while you entertain yourself with point-scoring, anyone offering you value for your exposés – whether it be the police, the broadsheets, or other organizations – will not do so for the satisfaction of proving themselves in the right.  If I need to take that into account, I will."

That last was pitched lower, closer to Takaba's ear.  The words smelled like whisky and cigarettes and expensive aftershave.

Another intrusion of memory: the night Asami had shown up, unexpected, on his apartment doorstep.  There had been raindrops beading the tips of his hair, glistening in the sodium yellow of the emergency lamp.  Cool wetness against Takaba's fingertips, afterward. 

He must have dismissed the car at the front gate and taken the outside stairs without an umbrella.  One at a time, not letting himself hurry – even to get in out of the rain. 

(Someone else's line in the sand.)

He needed to think about that.  But Takaba had done his thinking in the car, and he was tired of it now.

"I don't need protection," he said.  "_From_ you, maybe, but not _by_ you."

Asami registered _that,_ he saw, but whether as accusation or admission he didn't know.  It didn't matter.  His eyes were bright, like those of a great cat in the darkness, and Takaba had time to think _How dare he be happy, the bastard_ before Asami's mouth came down on his and all that had gone unsaid was deferred.

***

Later that night – early the next morning – Asami sat at his desk, turning the little pink pill over between his fingers.

It was uncoated, the factory stamp blurred by time spent in Takaba's pocket, and left a powdery residue on his fingers that iridesced under lamplight.  He'd recognized the chemical as soon as he'd touched it to his tongue, but – he thought – Takaba had not.  Or he would not have brought it to Asami.

It was a message.  A warning, or an opening salvo.

After a moment he picked up the phone and hit speed dial.  His secretary answered immediately: it was working hours for both of them, though by policy the man was never more than two rings away, notwithstanding time of day or night.

"Put me in contact with Yoh, in Hong Kong," he said.  "We have to solve this at the root."


End file.
